


Real Hero

by gonta



Category: Dangan Ronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Backstory, Gen, headcanon heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonta/pseuds/gonta
Summary: In most cases in works of fiction, vigilantes are lauded and praised for taking down corruption and evil. Ryoma Hoshi is not.[WRITTEN BEFORE DRV3'S RELEASE, CONTAINS MANY INACCURACIES]





	

**Author's Note:**

> So how abt that backstory reveal huh  
> The format of this was inspired by ikuzonos' "The Sense of Me", which I recommend giving a read since it's really good  
> Like I said, most of this is headcanon reliant and will probably be disproven. Just let me have my fun for now  
> (Also I know I haven't been working on Gifted Prisoners Group Chat and I apologize for that. Now that all characters have profiles and since my winter break is coming up, expect an update fairly soon)

Ever since you were little and played superheroes with your friends, a certain character type has always interested you. The morally grey antihero who stalks in the night, punishing the wrongdoers with the power of a thousand blows... delivering swift justice.  
  
But you're a far cry from that, aren't you? After all, you stopped growing when you hit 3'5", and you're not the type to cause trouble, anyway. You're just a normal guy with a normal name. Still, the idea of vigilantism plays at the edges of your mind. You know it's unrealistic, but you can't help but think...  


Things are going fine. Your gym teacher saw you play a game of tennis the other day, and he took you aside. You didn't understand half of what he said, but he seemed happy with you. He mentioned something about sports scholarships.  
  
You think about your family, you think about money, you think about the game. You take him up on his offer.  
  
School is alright. You have friends. You aren't a straight-A student, but you're doing well enough. People seem to like you, right?  
  
  
They stare a lot.  
  
At you, anyway. No one is sure what to make of you. Of your round, fishy eyes and the curve of your lips. It's not like you mind, though.  
  
What you do mind, though, is feeling people's eyes on you as you walk through a deserted area with no one around as far as you can see.  
  
You run home through a roundabout route in the slummy side of town, and you swear you see strange men around every corner.  
  
Are they looking at you?  
  
Maybe it's just the sun playing tricks on you...  
  
  
You pretend you don't hear, but you do. It's hard not to in the tiny apartment you and your parents live in.  
  
Every week, without fail, your parents receive a phone call. You don't know the contents of the call or even who's talking, but the sound of the phone ringing is enough to send you into your room. At least there, the sounds of your mom or dad pleading with whoever's on the other end is muffled. As is the sound of crying that follows, when one comforts the other.  
  
You made the mistake of picking up the phone, once. The voice didn't say much to you, but it was uncomfortably gravelly in tone. Like someone dragging a dead body across a stony road. You imagine the person on the other end as a large man with greying hair wearing a pinstriped black suit, an eyepatch covering one eye.  
  
Your uncle comes to visit sometimes, and gives you sheepish looks.  
  
As you go to school, and as you continue playing, paranoia begins to eat away at your bones.  
  
  
On the court, you're perfect. You nearly forget about the men that plague your family, and the rush of the game takes you away. It's your sanctuary, almost.  
  
You win again and again and again. Some media people ask to interview you once or twice. You are so very charming, just a really nice young man.  
  
But things are going off the rails. You've cut class many times - not to do anything in particular with anyone, just to think.  
  
Someone sells you a package of cigarettes, which you take without much thought.  
  
Deep-seated loathing begins to take root in your stomach.  
  
You find a weird hat in a dumpster.  
  
  
Your uncle is gone. One day, he was there, and now he's not. Your mom hasn't come out of the house for days. You think you understand: something is owed, but your family cannot pay their debts.  
  
You keep playing, hoping to gain a scholarship to some college so that your family has one less thing to pay for.  
  
Someone makes you a present: a steel tennis ball. It's heavy in your hand. Sometimes, you just weigh it in your undersized palm, gazing at it warily. Thoughts you can't put into words run through your head.  
  
  
You talk to the right people.  
  
You gain information.  
  
Plans are formed.  
  
Time is bided.  
  
  
It's late at night when you first do it. Your parents are asleep. Your footsteps don't make much sound, so no one notices that you're gone.  
  
When you see them, you know. You know they're with them. Them being the people that are doing this to your family.  
The yakuza. Maybe you should have just said that from the beginning.  
  
You stand at a crossroads. On one hand, your sports career, success. On the other, you could be batman, or zorro, or the scarlet pimpernel.  
  
You could be a real hero.  
  
Your hand is on the steel ball before you can even think the decision through, and then they notice you.  
  
  
You'd like to say that the sound of steel breaking through human flesh and bone is sickening, but it's oddly cathartic. Over and over and over again, like a normal ball hitting the court. The wounds are sloppy - they're from blunt force trauma, after all. But when you're done, several yakuza lackeys lay dead in the alley.  
  
You don't even wait a second before running as fast as your legs can carry you back home - though you take extra caution to close the door gently.  
  
As you lay on the bed, a mix of emotions you've never before felt runs through your head faster than you've just gone.  
  
God, you need a smoke.  
  
  
This goes on, it always goes on. The more you kill, the more leads you get to other yakuza members. It's almost like a video game, and in a weird, subdued way, it makes you kind of giddy.  
  
You can't tell your parents anything. But there's one week where there isn't a phone call, and the look of relief on your parents' face is worth it.  
  
Of course you feel guilty, but it has to be done. You're a vigilante, after all. You've dug your own grave.  
  
You start wearing the hat.  
  
It goes on...  
  
  
...and on and on and on and on and on and on, until one day you're ramming the mob boss who's been making your family's life a living hell since god knows when's head with the ball over and over and over and over again.  
  
Your arm is bleeding - other places are bleeding. But you don't stop. You think he's dead, but you still don't stop.  
  
You don't even stop when you see lights and hear blaring sirens, and your arms only go limp when the police wrestle you away from the body.  
  
You remain silent the whole time you ride in the police car.  
  
When you were younger, you probably would have been giddy about this.  
  
  
There's a trial, but you don't really remember it. You spend most of it staring the jury members dead in the eyes, threatening them to look away from the childish teenager whose fate is in their hands. Most of them shift uncomfortably, and this pleases you somehow.  
  
You plead guilty.  
  
It appears that you're going from skid row to death row.  
  
  
It's difficult to keep track of time in jail. You spend a lot of time alone at first, just thinking. People look strangely at you, but you don't mind. In fact, you welcome it.  
  
You learn how to get around. You trade favors for cigarettes, and even make a few "friends".  
  
You find a tennis racquet in storage, but you hide it at the bottom of the pile of sports supplies.  
  
Your father comes to visit you once, and never again. He barely says anything. Strangely enough, you feel a sense of pride radiating off of him. You barely say anything, either. At one point, he looks at your hat, then back at you, then at the ground. You just keep staring.  
  
Time ticks away, and your execution date approaches.  
  
  
Lethal injections? Electric chair? You can only imagine. And that's what you're doing when one of the guards delivers you a strange letter. Something about gifted high school students, and about you getting invited to a school you've never heard of because of your prowess when it comes to tennis.  
  
You've heard about the gifted program.  
  
But you've resigned yourself to your fate.  
  
  
...That's what you think, at least.  
  
You wake up in a truck with no windows.  
  
Through the dim light provided by a single crack, you see the chain around your ankle has been cut.  
  
Is this some kind of sick joke?  
  
You pound on a wall, yelling countless expletives. Your voice has never matched your body.  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
You go back to sleep, full of newfound shame.  
  
  
Squinting, you open your eyes. It's dark, save for three horizontal lines that let you see what lies in front of you. It's some sort of classroom, but it's overgrown with rot and weeds.  
  
You realize whats in front of you is a door, and you push it open with all your might.  
  
There's a note on the board that says to go to the gym. You haven't been good with rules and directions lately, but you decide to humor these. Whoever left these got you out of jail, after all.  
  
  
You reach the gym and hear muffled voices on the other side of the door. You hesitate, hand hovering over the knob.  
  
This could be a second chance for you.  
  
Another chance to be a hero.  
  
You push open the door and slip through, meeting the eyes that land on you like an old friend.  
  
This is the start of a new game.  
  
The score is 0 - 0, Ryoma - the rest of the world.

 


End file.
